A Side of You I Hate to See
by jesterjessie
Summary: Brittany hates it when Santana walks away from her, but sometimes the Latina just can't help herself. It's either that or shout at Brittany, and that's the one thing she promised she'd never do. [Brittany's perspective during, or after, various Brittana scenes throughout the four seasons.]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Funnily enough, I still don't own Glee. Though it's not for a lack of trying.

**Author's note: **This story has been in the works for a good few weeks, but life (and birthday hangovers) just got in the way and I could never find the time to write it. Sorry! Anyway, now it's here, I hope you enjoy it - the lack of consideration for how Brittany might have felt during all the Brittana scenes has always bugged, so I've just taken it upon myself to fill in the gaps. This will be a four-chapter fic, covering 'Sex isn't dating', 'I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you', Hurt Locker, and the break-up. Have fun!

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You know you've done something wrong the moment she slams the door of the empty classroom shut, a flinch jerking through your body as the lock clicks harshly into place. Santana is standing with her back to you, shoulders rising and falling with the deep breaths she takes to calm herself, but you can see the muscles in her arms clench as she grips the door handle tightly. The routine is familiar, one you've seen the brunette follow ever since she discovered you hiding in the corner of the playground, tears streaming down your face after Azimio screamed at you for accidentally breaking his new toy, and vowed to never shout at you. It's been ten years since she made that promise but every time you want to tell her to forget it, to tell her that you're sixteen now and can handle her raising her voice at you, the memory of six-year old Santana flickers into being behind your eyes, the proud grin that split her face seizing the words before they can pass your lips.

You don't know how long you stand there waiting, how many minutes slip by as your fingers play idly with the pleats on your Cheerios skirt, but eventually the tension in her arm eases, her hand dropping to the side as she turns to face you. You still don't really understand what you've done wrong, but the overwhelming mix of emotions playing out across Santana's face is enough to make your throat tighten with guilt. They're quickly reined back in, left to churn privately behind steel walls, yet the vulnerability still shines in her eyes, so jarring against the mask of anger that quickly drapes itself over her face. You bite your lip, hating every time she does this to herself, every time she refuses to let herself feel. It's a tiring game, her determination to cling to the image of the perpetually calm and fearless individual who rules the school; you can see it in the way her shoulders sag with relief every time you leave McKinley, in the way she timidly asks you cuddle her on the days she comes under attack, and you long for the day she stops forcing herself into this role.

Santana's looking at you, her arms crossing almost protectively across her chest as she does. You imagine she's waiting for you to speak, to apologise, but any thought about what you may have done to upset her is driven from your mind as you study her. She glances away, cheeks flushing under the burn of your gaze, and her shoulders hunch slightly as she draws back into her protective shell. It drives a spike of sadness through you that a part the Latina feels the need to protect herself from you, that she still hesitates to trust you completely despite the years you've spent as some of the only constants in each other's lives. You only just hold back the exasperated sigh threatening to free itself, knowing from experience that it only serves to push the brunette further away.

The furrow between her eyebrows deepens the longer she stands underneath your scrutiny until, eventually, she turns back to face you with an annoyed sigh.

"Well?" she spits venomously. It's enough to make you flinch again, the loaded question jolting you from your quiet inspection of the Latina, but the harshness in her voice doesn't even begin to match the extremes you've heard it reach before. Santana never completely shows how angry she is with you, never lets on the extent of her annoyance. You should be grateful, you know that; nobody else is treated with the same kindness, and you've witnessed more times than you can count what happens when someone truly angers the Latina, lingering guiltily against the lockers while she tears down her victim with brutally pitched insults. But you worry about what bottling up all that anger does to Santana. You know you're not an easy person with whom to be friends, that you would most likely be a target along with the various outcasts at McKinley were it not for the dual protection of Santana and the Cheerios, and you frustrate her more than she lets on. You love her for protecting you, but you're worried she might lose herself in the process, that one day the anger she battles to keep trapped will consume everything with the brunette's small body.

"Well what?" you reply tentatively, the guilt you felt when you first entered the room once again coursing through your body at the thought of disappointing Santana.

"That phone conversation! What the hell, Brittany?"

You swallow thickly, your eyes drifting to gaze vacantly at the various posters pinned around the classroom as you replay the conversation in your head, searching for something that would have set Santana off. You keep your face impassive as you think, ignoring the way she taps her foot impatiently, irritation worked out through the beat of worn trainers on a linoleum floor. Your fingers finally stop fiddling with your skirt as you realise exactly what you did to anger the brunette, what you revealed during the phone call...

"Oh."

"Fucking 'oh' indeed."

You wince – you've always hated it when Santana curses, the way her normally melodic voice sharpens around the words grating on your ears – but you understand her anger. Every insistent text reminding you that nobody needs to know about this side to your friendship, every time she tries to subtly engineer a relationship between you and one of the football team, her whispered reminder last night, before she crashed your lips together bruisingly, that this stays between the two of you...you ignored them all. You just blurted out the one secret the Latina taught you to prize above all others.

You're not stupid, despite what the majority of your classmates think, and what your recent slip-up suggests; at least, you aren't when it comes to people. Algebra still gives you a headache, you struggle to see how your English teacher thinks a river represents the passage of time, and part of you still can't help but think that the Boston Tea Party was just a waste of a good drink, but in terms of reading people, you would hazard a guess that you're one of the most skilled at McKinley. You know why Santana is so desperate to keep your...arrangement...a secret, even if the Latina hasn't begun to suspect anything yet. You can see it in the way she never suggests Kurt as a target for the Cheerios' slushies; the unwilling edge to her voice and the clench of her jaw as she agrees to somebody else's suggestion to target the slight boy; the small smile that plays about her lips if she forgets to leave your bed, or kick you out of hers, and wakes up wrapped in your arms, her face a picture of utter relaxation for a few blissful seconds before panic fills her eyes and she jerks away from you; and it was there in the way she stiffened during the phone call, her nervous breaths filling the awkward pause in the conversation, shoulders hunched as if she was preparing for an attack.

Not that you'd ever dare mention your suspicions to her.

"I-I'm sorry, San...I didn't mean...they probably won't take it seriously. It'll just be another stupid Brittany moment," you laugh weakly, eyes pleading for forgiveness as you focus your attention back on the smaller girl.

"Don't call yourself that," she mutters on reflex, her gaze fixed on the phone still clasped in her left hand. There's genuine fear etched onto her face as she stares at the phone, though what she's waiting for, you have no idea. "It's...fuck, Brittany! How could you do that?!"

The guilt threatens to envelop you again, clawing its way up your throat and scratching at the back of your eyes, and you watch her with a rising feeling of dread, scared that the strain of the burden she carries with her each day will finally make her crack.

"I'm sorry," you repeat in a soft whisper, taking a cautious step closer to the Latina. When she doesn't shy away, you take another, and then another, treading softly over the classroom floor until you come to stop in front of her. She doesn't lift her head to look at you, doesn't even acknowledge that you've approached, save for the tightening of her grip around her mobile, knuckles turning white under the pressure. You bite your lip and reach out slowly over the distance separating you from the Latina to try and pry it from her grip, your eyes darting back and forth between her face and her hand to see if she'll let you, but as soon as your skin meets hers, she jerks her hand back as if you'd pressed a searing hot poker to it. You wince as her hand connects with the desk behind her in her haste to pull away, yet she ignores it and takes a shaky step backwards, wide eyes fixed on you as she increases the gulf between you.

"Don't...Britt, just don't."

You sigh. Your frustration is growing now, thoughts you'll later regret clouding your mind, but you fight to keep it in check. You don't want to jeopardise any chance, no matter how slim, of discussing whatever this thing is that has developed between the two of you. It's hard to understand what everything means, what you mean to each other, when Santana won't let you talk about it, confining this entire extra side to your friendship to the quiet moments you spend wrapped around each other beneath the protection of your blankets, the moon splaying curious shadows over the walls as you twist the ends of her hair around your fingers.

(You've never told Santana how beautiful she looks in the moonlight.)

"Look, Santana...I don't know what you want me to say. I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to let it slip...it was a mistake."

"A mistake?" she repeats, disbelieving laughter creeping into her voice. "You're right it was a fucking mistake! Now the whole school will think we're two giant lesbo lovers or something!"

You only just manage to clamp your jaw shut in time to stop yourself from asking why that would be such a bad thing, knowing anything you say now will only further set her off.

"You've ruined everything we've worked for over the past year! Nobody wants a couple of dykes in charge!" she growls viciously, beginning to pace back and forth in front of you.

You don't miss the flinch that ripples through her at the word 'dyke'.

"They won't say anything! Just talk to them, tell them they mishe-..." you begin earnestly, your words drying up as she shakes her head.

"It doesn't matter if they don't say anything right now; they'll still be thinking it. They'll still look at us and think that we're together...they're not going to understand what we are."

You want to laugh at that, to let loose the bitter sounds of your twisted amusement and listen to them fill the room, echoing off the walls to drown out the condescending tinge to Santana's voice. Your eyebrows shoot up over your head as your mouth opens and closes, searching desperately for the perfect way to say that _you_ don't understand it, but before you can begin to voice your thoughts, the brunette starts to speak again.

"I need to go fix this," Santana sighs wearily. "See you later." Before you have a chance to respond, she spins neatly on her heel and hurries to the door, pausing only to unlock the door. Her head twists slightly, as if she wants to look back at you over her shoulder, and you find yourself praying for her to stay, but instead she shakes it, the same way a person does when a silly daydream plagues their mind, and wrenches open the classroom door, stepping out into the corridor. A pang of hurt, of rejection, stabs through your chest as you watch the red-and-white of the brunette's uniform get swallowed up by the students outside. Shaking your head dejectedly, you take a deep breath and hide your tumult of emotions behind the smile you fix on your face, knowing that that is what the school expects from you, the stereotypically blonde cheerleader, before following the other girl out into the crowd.

It's not until you see her let Puck press her up against a locker at lunch, smirking absently at the flood of students who pass them by as he places sloppy kisses up and down her neck, that you realise what fixing it entails.

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**AN2: **I hope you enjoyed it! This is the first time I've written in 2nd person narrative; is it something I should delve into again after this story? As always, I'd love to hear what you think, whether positive, negative, or somewhere in between. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own it. Sorry.

**Author's note: **Hey everyone. So, here's the latest installment, covering the events of 'I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you'. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get it to you; I had an absolutely nightmarish two weeks, where all I wanted to do was curl up underneath my covers, and then my laptop broke, so I lost everything I'd written. I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses, but I didn't wanto you to think I'd abandoned the story... Sorry! I hope you like the chapter, I'll have the next one fthe you by the end of next week.

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Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

You regret the words the moment they pass your lips, a cautious suggestion that floats out in a voice you're desperately fighting to keep casual as her lips capture the spot below your ear, tongue tracing her initials over the flushed skin in a way you know she hopes you'll forget. It's a quiet possessiveness that Santana lets herself feel for you, one which could easily be mistaken for that of a best friend. It's one which only truly loses the veneer of friendship and shows itself for what it is in the lingering kisses her lips press against your skin, revelling in the protection closed doors provide; the tightening of her pinkie finger curled around yours as the hockey team's catcalls follow the pair of you through the corridors; or the vicious edge that creeps into her voice as she cuts into any attempt to ask you out on a 'Brittany and Santana' night. Any other night is fine, welcomed even, but not your night.

You don't know why she still feels the need to interject, to take the decision away from you. She must know by now that you'll choose her, that you'll always choose her.

You don't really understand why you even dared to suggest it; it was obvious when her eyes immediately slipped away from you at Mr Schuester's suggestion of a competition, scanning the potential duet partners scattered around the room, that she was never planning on singing with you. This is just another competition for Santana to win, another way for her to reinforce her superiority at the school (one she's clutching at fiercely now Quinn's been reinstated as Head Cheerio; you're glad the other blonde seems to be recovering from her fall last year, but you can't help but resent her slightly for the extra strain she adds on to the Latina's already trembling shoulders), even if it is in a club most of McKinley takes pleasure in deriding; she won't dare endanger that by duetting with you, not when the memory of last year's disastrous group phone call still haunts her, the mention of which still prompts the muscles in Santana's jaw to clench painfully until you sigh and change the subject. Every new victory is another block in her walls, an extra level to the tower she builds for herself, the ideal defence for somebody who needs to be in charge, to be above everybody else, yet dreads the discovery of her secrets.

An irritated huff escapes her as she pulls back, a frown pulling at her features in a way they were never designed for. You know the rest of McKinley, those who haven't been let into her trusted circle, think that this is what her face looks like all the time, lulled into believing that Santana's battle mask is the face she always wears. They don't get to see her like you do, the harsh lines smoothed out as the tension drips from her body, the troubles of the day forgotten with every circle your fingers trace on the back of her hand as the two of you slump on the couch to watch Sweet Valley High.

"First of all, there's a lot of talking going on, and I wants to get my mack on," she bites, the warning clear in her voice even as the words she won't, or can't, let herself say flit across her eyes. You never really understood what people meant when they said that the eyes are the window to the soul, not until you really looked at Santana. It's obvious how uncomfortable it makes the brunette when you do, but you could spend hours watching the barely contained storm raging behind her eyes, her irises becoming a battleground of feelings, of thoughts deemed too risky, too vulnerable, too open. It's both captivating and terrifying. You know Santana realises what you can tell from a glance into her eyes; you can almost see the itch spreading over the back of her neck before she breaks eye contact, glancing away as the barest of flushes colours her cheeks.

Your chin dips in the slightest of nods as you hold back a sigh of frustration, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you ready yourself to once again drop the matter in favour of protecting Santana. Everybody thinks that the brunette is the one who looks after you both; you know there are some who think she should just cut you loose, let you drift into the background rather than fight to keep the both of you at the top of the high school hierarchy. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, to know how little your classmates think of you (Santana's whispered reassurances that she would never do that to you, that you're more than worth everything she does for you, sew up the holes torn into you by McKinley's mockery), but you can't blame them for their ignorance when Santana insists on locking so much of herself away. It's true, the Latina does stand up for the two of you, the feisty nine year-old who grabbed Rick Mulligan in a headlock until he apologised for knocking out your wobbly tooth now finding that her words are much more effective at cutting people down than her fists ever were.

Not that that stops her from occasionally falling back on them as a last resort, your pleas for her to stop fading into the mass of bodies which invariably gathers to watch, though whether they're unheard or simply ignored you're not sure. You know Santana's resilient - you've seen her dropped from the top of a pyramid and bounce back up with only the lightest dusting of bruises, any pain ignored as she launches a scathing criticism at the girls who dared let her fall - but your breathing still stutters every time she throws herself into a confrontation. The brunette's exaggerated confidence disguises how small she truly is, and you can never stop yourself worrying that this will be the time her recklessness lands her with a serious injury, your protector felled by her misguided faith in her own invincibility.

You'll never tell her that though. Best friends don't say those kinds of things to each other.

It's not the external that scares Santana. She can always know where she stands in an argument; she's either right or wrong, she wins or she loses. It's not that it scares you either, but the Latina has always been the better out of the pair of you at dealing with confrontation. It's what lies inside her own head which terrifies your best friend. The uncertainty of emotion, the vulnerability that ripples through her whenever things between you threaten to fall over the barrier into intimacy... McKinley would be shocked to see the mighty cheerleader so shaken.

You gently increase the pressure of your hands on Santana's back, directing her attention back to where it was focused before you foolishly decided to speak, an implicit agreement to let the matter rest wrapped up in the gesture. Much of what passes between the two of you is silent communication, your relationship at times more tactile than verbal. Words can't be misconstrued if nothing is said, and Santana can often be reassured more easily by you hooking your pinkie round hers than by anything you say, comfort found in the familiarity of the touch. You often fail to find the right words to say, or at least she says you do, her mouth spitting out harsh words of rejection even as her eyes soften in gratitude. These days you hesitate before letting loose the soft words that ring of your affection, unwilling to watch them bounce off the walls with which the Latina surrounds herself. It's not that you don't want to say them - the words are ready to flow from your tongue as eagerly as they did in your first year at McKinley - but you've learnt that Santana is trying to convince herself that she doesn't want to hear them, that she doesn't need the love of her best friend to patch up the parts of her worn through by the exhaustion of maintaining the same act every day.

She confuses you. And she frustrates you.

Santana dips her head again, lips grazing against the patch of skin to which she was paying such close attention earlier, and you sigh breathily at the touch. One day, one day you'll manage to get her to open up to you; you feel you deserve it, loyalty to the Latina having spanned more than a decade. It's not a blind admiration, as some people assume. You don't agree with everything she does, and you have ways of telling her you're not pleased, that the last insult was too harsh, that she's been targeting the same freshman for too long, but you know Santana depends on you just as much as you do on her. You can see the motivations for nearly everything she does, fingernails digging into palms as her brain is consumed by the intensity of her planning.

Your focus is dragged back to the present when you feel the absence of her body, the welcome weight she splayed over your chest missing. You're confused. You thought the two of you had agreed to let the matter rest, to ignore defining the vague boundaries of your relationship in favour of trading kisses, but the scoff that falls from her lips as she pushes herself to sit up, her back towards you, shows that what you said is anything but forgotten.

"Besides, I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies."

You don't miss the catch in her voice as she speaks, the tremble loud against the quietness of your room as her voice tightens around the words. You're too lost to think how to respond, torn between various reactions, and your mouth forms silent sentences as your eyes gaze blankly at the red cheerleading uniform stretched across her back, the vivid colour mocking you with its reminder of Santana's concern for her reputation. Disbelief wars with a frustration you're no longer sure is justified; can you really let yourself be hurt by the brunette when it's so clear that she's cocooning herself in just as many lies as she spins to you? You've never considered that Santana may be in love with you, not until the denial slips out of her mouth preemptively. You always thought that she has feelings for you that stretch beyond friendship, an idea which terrifies her, but never did you imagine that the same feelings that cloud your mind, the romantic clichés that reek of a lack of originality in the movies coming true whenever you see her, float around hers too. You love Santana; how you feel about her is the thing of which you're most sure, a definite fact to cling to for reassurance when the other pieces of your life crash into a confused mess. The idea that the Latina could love you back, even if she is sitting there denying the very same thing, sends your mind spiralling, heart thudding along with the slowly building excitement that flickers in your chest.

"It's just that Puck's been in the slammer for about twelve hours now, and I'm like a lizard. I need something warm beneath me otherwise I can't digest my food," Santana continues, seemingly taking your silence as a sign that you aren't going to react. A bitterness seizes your throat at the mention of the Jewish boy, lips curling as the acrid taste coats your mouth. You knows it's purely petty jealousy, that there's no real basis for your dislike - you did, after all, sleep with him last year. But just because it's petty doesn't mean you have to get over it; you've always tried to ignore Santana's boyfriends' faults before, in the vain hope that they were making her happy, but this time the resentment stems from the fact that he can do something you can't. Puck is the one who gets to curl his arm protectively around the brunette in the corridor, who gets to show up to parties with her on his arm, who can kiss her at school, sloppy embraces that are more about the mohawked boy than anything Santana likes. You have to force yourself to be content with pinkie fingers and locked doors.

"Then who are you going to do a duet with?" you mutter petulantly, your eyes dropping to look at your rumpled bed covers as you roll onto your side, head resting wearily on your palm. You try to ignore the smirk you can see pulling up the corner of her mouth.

"Wheezy."

"Mercedes? But you don't like each other."

"And?" Santana shrugs, hands pulling her hair back into the constrictive ponytail, taming any sign of what the two of you have been up to. "You don't have to like someone to recognise that you would sound amazing with them. Plus, she's not that bad...I just like getting a reaction."

"What about me?" you sigh softly.

She shrugs again, glancing over her shoulder at you with the barest of frowns furrowing her brow. You swallow thickly and look away, not wanting the Latina to see how much you're hurt; this is worse than her not wanting to sing with you, the careless shrug wounding you in a way Santana probably doesn't realise. She's always made plans for the both of you, always made sure to involve you in all of her considerations, and even if you decided to do something different, it still warmed you to know that she cared.

Santana has never felt so distant.

You roll onto your other side just as she pushes herself to her feet, wrapping your arms around yourself as unwelcome tears sparkle at the corners of your eyes. You're tired of this game for tonight, tired of second-guessing everything you plan to say, of trying to decipher the meaning behind Santana's words, trying to match them up to her actions, the involuntary ones she can't control. You're tired of the whole thing; part of you wants to rage at her, to launch your frustrations at the girl who is the root of them all, but the other part of you - the bigger part - just wants her to leave.

"Goodnight, Santana," you murmur, keeping your voice quiet so she can't hear the hurt that stains every word. You absentmindedly remember to remind your dad to fix the floorboards in your room when you hear them creak as the Latina shifts her weight uncertainly from one foot to the other. You can picture the look on her face perfectly, from the white teeth digging into her full lower lip to the deepening furrow between her eyebrows. Minutes pass and Santana still stands there; you're tempted to repeat yourself, knowing the hint for her to leave would be less subtle the second time round, when you feel a tentative hand stroke up and down your arm gently.

"Night, Britt," she whispers in return, yet more unspoken words clouding the ones that actually do leave her mouth. The hand falls from your arm after a few seconds and you wait, wondering if Santana is going to say, or do, anything else before you hear two quiet clicks, your bedroom door pulled open then gently shut.

* * *

You know your actions shine with pettiness the next day as you're pushing Artie through the corridors, clammy hands gripping the handles to his wheelchair as you prepare yourself to see the Latina. It's probably cruel to the disabled boy too, allowing him to imagine a relationship between the two of you that will last longer than a day, but Santana and Quinn had spent sophomore year drumming the realisation into you that it was your greatest bargaining chip in this school.

(It's a idea that makes you shiver with disgust when you spend too long thinking about it, but you'd do anything to see Santana proud of you.)

For once, you want to be the one who holds all the power, to show the Latina how it feels to have the decision ripped away from her. You can't deny the perverse thrill you feel at the flash of jealousy that crosses your best friend's face when she sees you, or the addictive feeling of power that ripples through you when you gesture at your chest before shaking your finger at her, but as you're wheeling Artie away, his rambling monologue about teaching you to play video games drifting into the white noise of McKinley, you can't help but feel like you're betraying her.

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**Author's note (2): **So there you go; I hope you enjoyed it. Any thoughts (positive, negative or somewhere in between!), please don't hesitate to drop me a review. I love hearing from you guys. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Any dialogue you recognise is directly from the TV show, which I still don't own.

**Author's note: **I know, I know, I'm awful! I'm sorry I've been so bad at updating this story, life has just got in the way more than I anticipated, but I promise I shall have the fourth and final chapter up before I go on holiday at the end of next week. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this penultimate chapter, covering the events of the Hurt Locker scene. Enjoy!

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You don't notice Santana when she first appears at your locker, too busy tearing it apart in search of the history homework that you for once completed, but the look of complete vulnerability that shines through the crumbling remains of her defences once she catches your attention immediately triggers your protective instincts. You can't pretend you're not still hurt by her actions earlier in the week, the speed with which the Latina spread your pregnancy fears further damaging the bond between you that has been slowly fraying since the duets fiasco. You spent several days in the grip of a terrified haze, nausea clawing at your throat as each new day came without a sign of your period, until the secret forced its way past your lips in a reckless search for comfort. That you chose to tell Santana first, and not your boyfriend, says more about your relationship than you're willing to acknowledge right now, but in that moment the only person you could contemplate telling was your best friend, a decision you somewhat regret as you're forced to hastily concoct a nonsense story about a stork beneath the burning stares of the glee club. You felt her eyes on you as you did it, a silent reproach for choosing to feign a childish stupidity that you resolutely ignored; Santana has never understood that sometimes playing into the preconceived opinion of you is often a simpler way of easing the tension, and frankly you were too bitter over being put into that position to care what she thought. Looking at her standing in front of you now, you briefly wonder if she did it to spite you, to show you how things have changed now that you're with Artie, but all traces of anger with the brunette are quickly shunted to the back of your mind as her lower lip trembles.

It's only a small gesture, almost insignificant on anybody else, yet you've rarely seen Santana let herself be so open with her vulnerability.

"Can we talk?" she asks softly, nervous in a way you've never seen her before. Even as she pulled at the loose threads in your passenger seat, silence filling the car as you drove her to the hospital during the summer holidays, Santana still managed to emanate the same steady calm she always does, one that you've long since realised is, more often than not, merely a façade to the swirling panic threatening to consume her.

"But we never do that."

You're not trying to be rude as you turn back to your locker with a small sigh, slotting your folder back in with more force than necessary, but it's the truth. You've practically abandoned any hope that Santana may one day open up about whatever has developed between the pair of you over the last few years, that she might acknowledge that your relationship isn't a _normal_ friendship, too much experience of the Latina shutting down conversations whenever they stray into uncomfortable territory to truly let yourself believe it might one day happen. But it's gotten worse since you've been dating Artie; you feel like you're losing your best friend. The girl who's been by your side for over ten years is slowly drifting away, tugged just as much by her own insecurities as she is pushed by your relationship with the bespectacled boy. The two of you rarely hang out as friends anymore, Santana always brushing you off with the vague excuse that she's busy, and you miss the days when the two of you would squabble playfully over the last spoon of ice-cream as she indulged your love of Disney movies. You don't understand what the brunette believes you think she's doing to keep her almost constantly occupied. You know her schedule has drastically emptied since the two of you, along with Quinn, left the Cheerios, free time no longer signed over to be spent running around the football field, encouraged only by the harsh blare of Sue's megaphone. You're starting to worry that Santana may be spending too much time in the gym to compensate, a bad habit she fell into worryingly often during your freshman year as she strove to climb the school hierarchy; she's noticeably lost weight over the past few weeks, but questioning her over it would only serve to further damage the remaining relationship between the pair of you, so you resolve simply to keep an eye on her from a distance.

All that's really left between the two of you is sex. You're not stupid; you know what you're doing with Santana is wrong, that it's cheating, but if it's the only way she'll let you have her now that you're dating Artie, you'll grab onto it with both hands.

"I know but, um, I wanted to thank you...for performing that song with me in glee club."

"Yeah," you breathe out, nodding slightly in surprise. You're still struggling to find words to describe the performance, to describe how you felt, but everything you remember about it has faded slightly in comparison with the pride that ballooned in your chest with her first note, one you feel gathering as a lump in your throat as you look at the girl in front of you. It was Santana being completely open, letting her guard down not just in front of you, but in front of the entire glee club, people she still hesitates to call friends. She was just letting herself...fall. Defenceless and vulnerable, Santana was letting herself fall and hoping somebody would catch her.

God, did you want to catch her. You want your heart to stutter everyday like it did when you wrapped your arms around her, her own fitting perfectly round your neck, breath painting goosebumps over your bare skin as she breathed a soft 'thank you' into your ear. You made sure to sit with her on the back row, not missing the look of delight that flashed through her eyes as you followed her, yet you could feel her stiffening under the weight of the glares Artie was throwing towards the two of you for the rest of practice, no amount of circles drawn subtly on her palm able to calm her. She shot off straight after practice ended, taking with her any hope that you would talk about the song as she sped from the room, and you felt a slight resentment build towards your boyfriend as you watched her leave.

"'Cause it's made me do a lot of thinking. What I've realised is why I'm such a bitch all the time," she sighs. The denial on your lips, ready to reassure her that she's not a bitch, dies at the hitch in her voice, the tremor driving a spike of pain through you. You never knew it was possible to _feel_ so intensely, to suffer so much because of another's hurt, until you compared how you feel around Santana to around others. Words fail you at the look on her face and it's only by swaying on the balls of your feet that you can stop yourself from throwing your arms around her; she looks as if she could use the comfort, but there's a new determination crackling around Santana, one you've never seen before yet you know not to disrupt, the words that swarm behind her eyes finally ready to be let loose.

"I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I have all of these feelings," she continues, warily eyeing the member of the football team casually strolling past yet blind to the way the breath has been punched out of your throat. "Feelings for you, that I'm afraid of dealing with because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences."

The tears are evident in her voice, and it's getting harder to keep still, but you force yourself to fight the urge to cradle her in your arms and shush away the pain. It's important for Santana to say this, even more important than it is for you to hear it; you've known how she feels for a long time, clues in the actions she can't hide no matter how hard she tries, but you're willing to guess this is the first time the brunette has acknowledged any of the feelings that linger confusingly beyond the boundaries of friendship for you. If you were to stop her now, you have no idea when, or even if, such an opportunity would be handed to you again.

Still, you have to remember that this isn't just about Santana's feelings for you. You hope that whatever revelations she's having about you have prompted something similar for herself; you hate seeing the brunette as a shadow of what she could be, everything that she is limited as she holds herself back, desperate to hide herself from any wandering eyes. As much as it would hurt, you would happily forfeit any feelings Santana has for you if she could learn to love herself anywhere near as much as you love her. That's all you've ever wanted, for Santana to see herself as you see her, to understand why it is you will always be there at her side (however she lets you be), to realise how _brilliant_ she could be if she stopped holding herself back.

"And Brittany, I can't go to an Indigo Girls concert. I just can't," she mutters, a touch of her usual snark dripping into her voice as she rolls her eyes.

"I understand that," you reply softly, because you do. You get that this is Santana's unique way of saying she's not ready for any grand declarations, which you never expected, but the corner of your mouth still twitches, threatening to break into a smile at the Indigo Girls reference that says more about Santana than the girl probably realises.

She bites her lip and looks down, eyelashes fluttering as sentences build in her head, and your knuckles turn white as you clench your fists around the straps of your bag, preparing yourself for whatever is about to launch itself from her tongue.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?"

"No, not really," you breathe, furrowing your eyebrows in what you hope passes as a look of confusion. You can see what's coming reflected in her eyes, a similar look to one that shines from your eyes in any photographs of the pair of you where you're looking at her. You know what's about to spill from her lips, but you don't tell her that; you need to hear this, unable to go back to living off half-truths and unspoken words after everything that's happened since she approached your locker.

Your grip tightens further as she takes a shuddering breath, head tilting to the side as if she's weighing up her options.

"I want to be with you," she eventually confesses, the words hitting you like the softest of kisses, ones Santana presses to your cheeks late at night when she thinks you're sleeping. Indescribable warmth builds up in your chest, blossoming much like your pride did during your glee club performance, and your fingers itch maddeningly to reach out and tangle with hers. "But I'm afraid of the talk and the looks. I mean, you know what happened to Kurt at this school."

Your pride in the girl in front of you, baring herself emotionally for the first time, slides over your face, pushing the corners of your mouth up into a smile. Even Santana admitting that she's afraid is a novelty; she's been wracked by a fear of something or other her entire time at McKinley, though you're the only who catches glimpses of it as the Latina stalks through the corridors clad in the perfect image of the invincible head of the high school hierarchy.

You're not sure if you've ever loved her more than in this moment.

"But honey," you start, determined to show Santana that she needn't be as scared as she is, "If anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words."

It's not different to the way she's protected you for over a decade, but you know that the greater part of McKinley is enthralled by too great a combination of fear, awe, and respect to cause her any serious trouble were any of this made public. She's not Kurt, clinging to the fringes of the vicious high school world; she doesn't have to worry about giving the bullies another thing with which to beat her down. You would never suggest that she would have a completely easy ride – the corridors are still littered with enough students for whom the term 'narrow-minded' isn't nearly enough of a description – but you don't want her to base her experience on Kurt's.

"Yeah, I know," she sniffles, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she looks at you, and you soften your gaze, hoping to give her any comfort you can. "But I'm so afraid of what everyone will say behind my back. Still, I have to accept...that I love you."

If your eyes hadn't watched her lips form the words, you're not sure you would have believed the soft confession that filters into your ears in Santana's tear-thickened voice. It's clichéd to say so, but you've been praying for those words to slip from the Latina's mouth for God knows how long, countless tears muffled by your pillow as you slowly lost hope over the possibility of ever hearing them. Something tries to fight its way up your throat, though whether it's a sob or a laugh, you're unsure. Your response builds on the tip of your tongue, ready to tell Santana that you love her too, but you're forced to swallow it, the sight of a freshman in glasses somewhere over the other girl's shoulder reminding you why you can't be with her.

Artie.

"I love you," she continues, unaware of the despair slowly crushing your happiness as you fight to keep your face neutral, the realisation slipping like an ice-cube down your throat. "And I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys...I just want you. Please say you love me back. Please," she gasps, shaking her head to hold back the tears threatening to fall.

It's the sound of your strong Santana begging, pleading for you to love her, as if she doesn't think she's worthy of it, that breaks your silence; a desperate need to make her see just how much you love her, how long you've loved her, consumes you. She sounds powerless, small, and the depth of her feelings shocks you.

"Of course I love you, I do," you tell her, eyes gazing into hers imploringly, and the way her features soften in relief makes you hate yourself for what you're about to do. "And I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie."

"Artie?" she asks, relief ripped away from her at the boy's name.

"I love him too," you murmur, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on Santana's face, as much as it hurts, some sort of perverse punishment for doing this to her. "I don't want to hurt him, that's not right. I can't break up with him."

Your parents always praise you for having good morals, but in this moment you can't help but resent them for bringing you up that way. You _do_ love Artie, you're not lying about that, and he's the safe option; he'll never spurn you because of what other people think, he'll never hook up with somebody else if someone sees the two of you...it makes sense to stay with him, but he can't compare to the draw you have to Santana, one that's fixed you to the girl from the moment you met her.

"Yes, you can. He's just a stupid boy," Santana urges, hurt and anger combining to give her voice the most painful tone you've ever heard it take.

"But it wouldn't be right," you argue gently. "Santana, you have to know if Artie and I were to ever break up, and I'm lucky enough that you're still single..."

You're unprepared for the painful rejection that stings you when she pushes away the hand you rest on her arm, a rejection you know must be coursing through her with every word you add.

"I am so yours. Proudly so," you mutter softly, truth ringing through every word. She shrugs it off, but you need her to understand. You'll always be hers, you always _have _been hers, from before you understood that the tingles you felt when she grabbed your hand meant something special. Artie might be the one you're with, but he'll never have all your love, he'll never even have most of it. How can he, when so much of it has been taken by the girl in front of you?

"Wow. Whoever thought that being fluid meant you could be so stuck?" she spits bitterly, the words piercing you like knives.

Anything you say at this point will only make it worse, so you do the only thing you know how to at this point and reach out for her.

You're not surprised when she pushes you away, your apologies ignored by ears that don't want to listen, but it doesn't stop the burn of rejection.

You don't chase after her as she walks away.

* * *

You're still stood by your locker when Artie finds you ten minutes later, your forehead pressed to the cool metal in an effort to stave off the tears. You work your face back into the neutral position you've forced it into too many times today and turn to look at him as he begins to speak, but few of his words pierce the fog clouding your mind. You're struggling to hold it together, the despair of having everything you've wanted offered to you only to have to turn it down crashing over you in ferocious waves that refuse to abate, and the only reason you haven't already sped home to break down in the safety of your own bedroom is because you promised your boyfriend a ride home.

You slam your locker shut, unable to care about whether you have the correct books, and grip onto the handles of Artie's wheelchair, needing something to ground you as his words wash over you in an unheard babble. You don't remember much of the journey to Artie's house, the kiss you give him once you've set him back in his wheelchair nothing more than an automatic brush of your lips against his cheek (rougher than Santana's, you note, suddenly unable to stop comparing them). You're surprised you stay on the road on the way home, mind too busy contemplating everything that's happened over the past few days; recalling the look of pure joy that sprung into Santana's eyes when you told her you loved her, and the way Artie's concern for you only lasts a matter of seconds before he's back to talking about something funny one of the AV guys did at lunch. You can't stop yourself from wondering if Artie is happier that you're his _girlfriend_ than that _you're_ his girlfriend. It's something you've never questioned before, but you can't stop the doubts from slipping unbidden into your mind.

You can't help but wonder if you've made a mistake.

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**Author's note (2): **What did you think? I love hearing from you guys, so if you have thoughts at all (good, bad or indifferent, I honestly want them all) or any questions, don't hesitate to drop me a review. As always, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **You think Bram would have happened if I owned Glee?

**Author's note: **So here we are, the fourth and final installment of this story. Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and reviewed this story, your support means the world. I've enjoyed writing this and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. As always, any comments you have on the chapter (positive or negative) are completely welcome, so don't hesitate to leave me a review - I love to hear from you. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

You stand silently in the scuffed corridor as you peer through the glass window into the choir room, ignoring the trickle of the final homebound students leaving school for the day in favour of studying the girl perched cautiously on the back row of seats. A giddiness you've chased after in vain over the weeks Santana's been missing had ballooned inside you with Sam's whispered message, midway through your last class of the day, that she was waiting for you in the practice room, concentration on modern poetry destroyed as your muscles yearned to spring you from your chair and across to the other side of school. It's stung to enter the choir room since you've returned to McKinley, the space tainted by the absence of its graduating members; their echoes still linger in the corners of the room, memories of past laughter and playful bickering filling in the silences of a now-disjointed club, one struggling to breathe under the loss of those who helped shape it, the loss of trusted friends and musical allies.

The loss of Santana.

Your hand hangs uselessly by your side in practices these days, fingers itching with the absence of the tanned counterparts with whom they so effortlessly tangled. Your heart burns every time you forget she's no longer there, every time your lips curl with mirth and you turn to share the amusing thought flickering across your mind, every time your eyes search out the comforting sway of her ponytail. The room is shrunken, incomplete without her, and your excitement builds with the pounding of footsteps against linoleum floors, desperation to see the imposing emptiness banished by her presence coursing through you. You're almost surprised not to be greeted with a flash of red and white as you glance into the room, the lack of a cheerleading uniform jarring with an image you realise is based not only on a return of Santana, but on a return to _before_. She seems uncomfortable in a way you've never seen, almost trapped by a room that used to be the only place in which she truly let herself be free. Unease curls around the base of your spine as you watch her eyes dart about the room, deep breaths drawn into her chest as her hands tap out an uneven beat against her legs.

It's a routine you grew too used to seeing throughout junior year, yet you've rarely seen it since. It's one used by Santana to draw herself up, to build the strength required to bolster her defences for yet another day, and your heart clenches in worry at the sight of it. Your fingers, loosely curled around the door handle, absently tap out the same beat until she turns and catches your eye through the small square of glass, the soft smile playing about her lips all the encouragement you need to push open the door and step inside.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Sophomore year I used to sit in this back row and secretly watch you," she starts, clouded eyes tracking your slow steps across the choir room floor. "I counted the number of times you'd smile at me, and I'd die on days that you didn't."

The corners of your lips quirk up at the reminder of the months where a warm smile was the only way you could show Santana your feelings, hoping she would understand the depth of the affection lurking behind the simple movement of your lips. She's never told you this before, a confession left out in favour of numerous others, and your smile grows at the realisation that, even while trapped within the seemingly unbreakable confines of her closet, Santana at least partly understood everything you wordlessly tried to tell her. Yet guilt grabs at the corners of your mouth before your smile can stretch any further, regret spreading over your skin like a rash as the second part of her admission drops heavily between the two of you and every time your frustrations with the Latina grew too large flashes behind your eyes.

"I miss this place so much. It's where we fell in love," she shrugs, her gaze slipping from your face to stare around the empty room, and she misses how your grip tightens on your folder at the tremor in her voice. You gently lower yourself to one of the scattered chairs as she takes a breath, the shakiness doing nothing to ease the building worry you feel at the atmosphere of regret surrounding Santana. The room seems charged with an almost inevitable sorrow, the crushing loneliness no longer held back by the other members of the glee club creeping towards you as the flickering ghost of a smile disappears from Santana's face. "Where I could say things with music when words just weren't enough...and I need to tell you something that I don't know how to say."

You recognise the song as soon as the first notes pierce the silence surrounding the pair of you; it's one you've heard before. Wrapped in blankets as the two of you lay on your sister's trampoline the night before she was due to leave for Louisville, shivering not from the cold but from a fear of what was to come, Santana had sung it to you in a voice barely above a whisper, dark eyes holding blue captive beneath the star-filled sky. It hadn't made her departure any easier, your muscles aching for days with the memory of the sobs that painfully wracked your body as you fell apart in your father's arms, his strong embrace useless against the piercing pain of the ever-growing miles between you and Santana, but you had clung to it in the weeks after she left. The promises of forever became your only salve against the aching loneliness, countless nights spent crying yourself to sleep to the same song spinning on endless repeat, chords and melodies and lyrics wrapping themselves around you in a poor imitation of Santana's last embrace. You've always loved it when Santana sings to you, bares herself to you in a way she knows you'll understand, but a part of you longs to interrupt her, to beg her to stop, desperate to avoid the painful memories of the last time she sung this to you.

Terrified that this performance will signal something worse.

The beginnings of tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you spot the glossiness in hers. You've always felt everything she has, every feeling she displays echoed in you to a greater or lesser degree; it's a connection with the Latina of which you've always been proud, emotions linking the pair of you long before Santana consciously let herself be emotionally vulnerable with you, but as you watch her fingers tighten around the edges of the chair she's perched, you find yourself wishing for the first time that it didn't exist. A war rages behind watery eyes, fear, anguish and regret crackling in the air around Santana, and the weight of it all presses down on your chest, leaving you dizzy and struggling for breath.

Her voice doesn't calm you like it did two months ago. Her words no longer spread themselves over you like a warm blanket. You feel distant, cut off, as if somewhere along the route to Kentucky, the connection that has bound the two of you together ever since Santana first discovered you in the playground splintered, frayed links falling to the side of the road. Perhaps that's why the two of you have been out of sync since she left, schedules never quite matching up, conversations dissolving into pained excuses as one of you is dragged elsewhere. To your mind, one that sees things in beats and rhythms and in how well two entities match, it's a terrifying notion.

You try to smile, but your throat tightens around a painful lump as every promise you've ever heard in the song crashes around you at the pain sweeping over Santana's face. It's all you can do not to let yourself fall apart. Your throat dries, almost cracking with the effort of holding back the sob trying to force its way out of your mouth. Everything feels like it's shattering beneath you, things of which you had been so sure mere hours ago wiped out by the tremble of her lower lip, the tear staining a perfect cheek.

She can't look at you as she draws the song to a close, the last lingering note directed, not at you, but at some vague point in the distance, and you think that's when you know what she's about to do. Panic grips you because it can't happen, you can't _let _it happen, and your brain tries to fight its way through the mess of tears threatening to take over in search of some way to stop it.

"Well...sad songs make me sad and I don't want to be sad," you mumble, sniffling as you try to wipe away your tears. You need to be the strong one, for once you need to be the one to guide, to show Santana that she's making a mistake.

"I haven't been a good girlfriend to you," she starts, shaking her head before you can deny it.

You're not stupid. You knew this would never be easy, that your relationship wouldn't be the same as the one you shared when Santana was in Lima. You want to tell her that but your body won't respond, refusing to move as Santana opens her mouth to continue talking, your brain unable form a sentence from the words tumbling through it chaotically.

"I can't come home on the weekends and pretend that things are they way they were because they aren't," she continues, and you know that, you do, but your body still won't _move_; your hand won't grasp hers tightly; your voice won't sound an objection.

You've never had so little control over your own body.

It terrifies you.

"And I don't want to be like all of those other long-distance relationships that, y'know, hang in there for a few months and then break up when someone eventually cheats or things get weird."

"I would never cheat on you," you counter immediately, willing your voice to sound as certain of that as you know you are, determined to soothe the insecurity flashing in her eyes.

"I know," she whispers, nodding, and you're seized by a wave of nausea because she doesn't match your statement with one of her own. Because, God, now you're terrified that she might have cheated on you and it's irrational, you know it is, but you spent weeks telling her she would find someone better at Louisville and her promises that she wouldn't were never fully able to calm that fear... The blood pounds so loudly in your ears that you almost miss what she says next. "I know, and I would never cheat on you either but..."

You want to throw up at the hesitation.

"If we're being completely honest, I had...I guess the best way to describe it would be an energy exchange," she starts, adding a layer of confusion to the fear churning in your stomach. "I was cramming for this really boring sociology class, and I looked up and this girl was staring at me. She smiled a little too long, which means she was either crazy or a lesbian, and judging by the stack of Virginia Woolf she was reading, she was into me...so I smiled back."

She shrugs, guilt splayed across her face, and you almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it, that Santana thinks a smile is worth the end of your relationship, but she doesn't give you the chance to interrupt.

"I had an attraction and y-you...you may have had one, or y-you might have one, and that...that happens."

You want to shake your head frantically, to scream that it doesn't matter because she's it for you, she has _always _been it for you, but you're frozen as she moves to the seat beside yours, grim inevitability dampening the brightness of her eyes.

"Let's just do the mature thing here, okay?" she asks, but you know it's not a question. Still, it's enough to snap you from your temporary paralysis and you shake your head once, twice, but the lump in your throat has grown too painful to let through any of the words swimming just out of reach of your tongue.

"This is not an official break-up, but let's just be honest that...long-distance relationships are almost impossible to maintain, because both people are rarely getting what they need," Santana breathes shakily, and the tears threatening to invade her voice are enough to tell you this is the end. "Especially at our age," she adds softly.

You have to look away before you crumble, your hand coming up automatically to brush away the tears slowly marking your cheeks.

"This sounds a lot like a break-up to me," you shrug, unwilling for her to sugar-coat the crushing pain in your heart, your body screaming as if your heart was actually breaking. You don't understand why you fought so hard, why you struggled on beneath the burden of homophobes and being rejected by family members, why you refused to be broken by the vicious heckles launched at the two of you around town if you were just going to let it crumble into meaningless ashes at the first sign of difficulty.

"You know this isn't working," she mumbles, eyes fixed imploringly on yours even as she shakes her head. "You know I will _always_ love you the most."

Your face crumples and the soft kiss she presses to your lips tastes of nothing but goodbye.

You want to hate her for it, to throw out the harsh insults you're used to hearing slip through her lips. People often assume you're incapable of hatred, reducing you to a human embodiment of childlike naïveté because you can't always divide mentally, or because you still mix up some of the presidents, but you feel it just like everybody else. It was there in the bile rising in your throat as the commercial outing Santana appeared on your TV screen, in the burning desire to scream at the Latina's grandmother for abandoning her. It courses through you every time you think of Russell Fabray, flickers into focus at every memory of Kurt being shoved into lockers. But when it comes to her...no matter what Santana does, no matter how much you've been hurt by her, you don't know how to hate her.

You slump into the arms she wraps around you, fight draining out of you with the tears that strangle your murmured 'I love you too'. You wonder whether this is punishment for taking her for granted, whether you assumed that she would always be there, pinky wrapped around yours, and thus you didn't shower her with the love she deserves, one you've always prided yourself on being able to make her realise she's worth.

"Please," you whimper, pulling back from the hug to press your lips to hers more firmly, pleading against her lips even as you feel her lack of reaction. It's pathetic and your cheeks flush with embarrassment, the tears tracking over them doing to nothing to cool the flaming heat, but you can't stop yourself because you can't lose Santana. She's your _everything_, she grounds you, and you're already feeling dangerously off balance even as her arms hold you up, everything you've ever envisaged with her disintegrating beneath the tears you feel drop from Santana's eyes onto your shoulder as she gathers you into her arms, gently rocking you from side to side.

Your beautiful, perfect Santana. Strong to the very last.

You don't know how long you sit there, how many minutes slip by your gentle swaying, but eventually the tears dry, damp shoulders finally given a reprieve. Shaky breaths scrape over your rough throat as she pulls back, red-rimmed eyes catching your own before she leans up to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, thumbs stroking softly over the mess of dried tears on your cheeks. And then she's gone, easing herself from her chair and walking across the choir room to the door, heels shattering the heavy silence. She pauses at the door, just like she did so many years ago, and the whimper that slips past your lips is all the pleading for her to stay you can muster, but she slowly creaks the door open and steps out into the empty corridor.

You're left to watch the girl you've loved for ten years walk away and you can't find the words to stop her.


End file.
